SPN fic: Five Things Only Dean's Wife Knows About Him
Genre: het futurefic
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 660
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
Five Things Only Dean's Wife Knows About Him
He’s got a hopeless man-crush on Daniel Craig.
True story.
= = = = =
He’s gone to ridiculous lengths to hide from the rest of the family just how bad his bad shoulder is. He carries equipment right-handed, and he never, ever tries to lift anything heavy over his head with his left.
Mostly, it works.
Last week Sam forced a game of twenty questions when he noticed Dean gobbling Advil. “Dude, headache,” Dean snapped, and Sam dropped it.
It’s not because Sam’s dense or oblivious, God knows. And it’s certainly not because he’s forgotten that night in ’09 when he dislocated Dean’s shoulder. (With a wall. Without physically touching him.)
That’s something that will never leave either of them.
But if Dean says he’s fine, Sam is willing to believe him. He has always vaguely, irrationally suspected that his big brother is Superman.
Maria knows she married Batman, and beneath the fluttering, theatrical cape, Bruce Wayne bleeds red as anybody.
So she brings home a packet of Icy-Hot stickies for his bum shoulder, and she slaps one on him while she’s got his shirt off.
“Crap, that’s cold,” he hisses. And then, unashamed of any human weakness, he leans back in her arms and sighs, “Thanks.”
= = = = =
In the first semester of his freshman year at Stanford, Sam took the stupidest midterm of his entire life. Question number six asked what he knew as regarded the Boers’ preference for lesbian porn, straight porn, or threesome porn. Or D, all of the above.
At the front of the lecture hall, the professor glanced up in bewilderment, wondering what all the snorts and snickers were about.
The pretty blonde in the third row, Sam’s crush since orientation, started giggling uncontrollably about fifteen minutes in.
“Something funny, Miss Moore?” Dr. Bielman snapped.
“Sir, I just-“ she choked out, hand half-covering her mouth. “I have no idea whether Cecil Rhodes was a top, a bottom, or versatile.”
Dr. Bielman snatched up her test. He stared for a while.
He spent the next week trying to track down the smartass in the leather jacket-Sid Garret? Sid Berris?-who’d made such annoying small talk in the copy room that day.
The Rhodes Scholar, as he came to be known, never confessed. Especially not to Sam.
Dean figured it would be pretty pathetic to admit he’d been anywhere near California in 2001. He certainly hadn’t driven fifteen hundred miles with some sleep-deprived intention of bringing Sam back.
And if anyone asks, no, he didn’t spend six hours on campus, hover in the copy room like an idiot, and then take off for the opposite coast.
= = = = =
Sometimes Dean’s thrashing nightmares wake Maria, and she does her best to soothe him. She hates hearing him snarl at whatever cold-eyed killer haunts him tonight.
She hates that sometimes he swings a wild fist and calls him Sam.
= = = = =
They’d been married a year when they had their first picnic. On a blanket under March stars, Dean gave Maria her very own 9 mm. She tackled him with such a hug he complained about bruising.
“That right there,” Bobby noted dryly, “is the sign of a man incredibly secure in his marriage.”
Sam rolled his eyes and said, “A gun? You bought your wife a gun for your anniversary?”
Dean shrugged. “I wrapped it in pink.”
This isn’t what Maria dreamed of as a little girl. Pretty much every inhabitant of her old life-the one without cowboys and monsters-is completely horrified, or would be if they knew.
“You’re family now,” Sam told her on her wedding day, earnest and handsome in his suit. For these men, “family” had weight and meaning beyond “those nutjobs who send us fruitcake once a year.”
Given all that, Maria never doubts that her husband trusts her aim, her judgment, and her steady hands.
But she knows he will always feel safest standing back to back with his brother.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 660
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
Five Things Only Dean's Wife Knows About Him
He’s got a hopeless man-crush on Daniel Craig.
True story.
= = = = =
He’s gone to ridiculous lengths to hide from the rest of the family just how bad his bad shoulder is. He carries equipment right-handed, and he never, ever tries to lift anything heavy over his head with his left.
Mostly, it works.
Last week Sam forced a game of twenty questions when he noticed Dean gobbling Advil. “Dude, headache,” Dean snapped, and Sam dropped it.
It’s not because Sam’s dense or oblivious, God knows. And it’s certainly not because he’s forgotten that night in ’09 when he dislocated Dean’s shoulder. (With a wall. Without physically touching him.)
That’s something that will never leave either of them.
But if Dean says he’s fine, Sam is willing to believe him. He has always vaguely, irrationally suspected that his big brother is Superman.
Maria knows she married Batman, and beneath the fluttering, theatrical cape, Bruce Wayne bleeds red as anybody.
So she brings home a packet of Icy-Hot stickies for his bum shoulder, and she slaps one on him while she’s got his shirt off.
“Crap, that’s cold,” he hisses. And then, unashamed of any human weakness, he leans back in her arms and sighs, “Thanks.”
= = = = =
In the first semester of his freshman year at Stanford, Sam took the stupidest midterm of his entire life. Question number six asked what he knew as regarded the Boers’ preference for lesbian porn, straight porn, or threesome porn. Or D, all of the above.
At the front of the lecture hall, the professor glanced up in bewilderment, wondering what all the snorts and snickers were about.
The pretty blonde in the third row, Sam’s crush since orientation, started giggling uncontrollably about fifteen minutes in.
“Something funny, Miss Moore?” Dr. Bielman snapped.
“Sir, I just-“ she choked out, hand half-covering her mouth. “I have no idea whether Cecil Rhodes was a top, a bottom, or versatile.”
Dr. Bielman snatched up her test. He stared for a while.
He spent the next week trying to track down the smartass in the leather jacket-Sid Garret? Sid Berris?-who’d made such annoying small talk in the copy room that day.
The Rhodes Scholar, as he came to be known, never confessed. Especially not to Sam.
Dean figured it would be pretty pathetic to admit he’d been anywhere near California in 2001. He certainly hadn’t driven fifteen hundred miles with some sleep-deprived intention of bringing Sam back.
And if anyone asks, no, he didn’t spend six hours on campus, hover in the copy room like an idiot, and then take off for the opposite coast.
= = = = =
Sometimes Dean’s thrashing nightmares wake Maria, and she does her best to soothe him. She hates hearing him snarl at whatever cold-eyed killer haunts him tonight.
She hates that sometimes he swings a wild fist and calls him Sam.
= = = = =
They’d been married a year when they had their first picnic. On a blanket under March stars, Dean gave Maria her very own 9 mm. She tackled him with such a hug he complained about bruising.
“That right there,” Bobby noted dryly, “is the sign of a man incredibly secure in his marriage.”
Sam rolled his eyes and said, “A gun? You bought your wife a gun for your anniversary?”
Dean shrugged. “I wrapped it in pink.”
This isn’t what Maria dreamed of as a little girl. Pretty much every inhabitant of her old life-the one without cowboys and monsters-is completely horrified, or would be if they knew.
“You’re family now,” Sam told her on her wedding day, earnest and handsome in his suit. For these men, “family” had weight and meaning beyond “those nutjobs who send us fruitcake once a year.”
Given all that, Maria never doubts that her husband trusts her aim, her judgment, and her steady hands.
But she knows he will always feel safest standing back to back with his brother.